


Come In For Tea

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Child Death, Dad Yondu, Ego is evil, Gen, Kraglin is tired of his nonsense, Pre-Canon, Yondu is everyone's dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Yondu smuggles children, turns down Ego's invites for tea and crumpets, and gets on with his life. He also gets attached far too easily.A closer look at the children Yondu couriered, prior to Peter Quill.





	Come In For Tea

**Author's Note:**

> **This one contains spoilers for GOTG 2, and feelies. Both Yondu's, and your own.**

“Yondu? I wanna go home now.”

This is the part he dreads.

Yondu had plied the kid onto his ship with a shiny toy, a smile, and a promise of more. It makes him feel all kinds of grimy, and not just because he has yet to shower this month. He _knows_ what happens to lil girls lured away from their mamas. It ain't a happy story, and it certainly don't end with fathers and daughters being reunited. So really, the brat ought to be grateful that right now, six days later, she's curled in her cot in Yondu's room on the other side of the galaxy, not a single scratch to show for her stupidity.

He had the cot made special. It's safer to keep the brats here, behind locked doors, separate from the crew. Safer for both the brats and the crew themselves. Because if they so much as _breathe_ on the kids without permission, Yondu'll rip his men apart – and then be ripped apart in turn, once that stars-damned Celestial finds out about it.

Oh, Ego's always pleasant enough. On the surface. But Yondu doesn't want to think about what lurks beneath that crust. What he sees – the smiling, genial, bushy-haired man, always ready to welcome him with an offer of crumpets and tea – is far removed from the reality: an age-old God whose longevity and loneliness make Yondu's head hurt to think about.

It's halfway through the night cycle. And sure, he hasn't been _sleeping –_ never can when he's running these jobs; must be anticipation for the payload, which is due in his vault by the end of the astral-week. But that doesn't mean the kid's voice is welcome. Still. Can't snap at the cargo. Best give her what she wants. Or failing that, because the one thing Yondu _can't_ do is take her back to where she belongs, he can bribe her to shut up instead.

The hell had he put that shiny...? Oh yeah.

Rubbing sleep-grit from his eyes, he yawns and scratches at his thick leather underjacket. Ravager galleon ain't warm enough for PJs. The kid's sleeping in her clothes like the rest of them, several ratty blankets piled over her besides. Her face is the only part showing: small and green and wedge-shaped, with three big brown eyes. Yondu would feel sorry for her. She's alone in an unfamiliar place with only a grumpy adult for company. That ain't any kid's definition of fun. But in the greater scheme of the galaxy, she ain't got nothing to complain about. There's children her age in far worse situations. Prostitution rings. Drug mules. Kree slaves...

He fishes through his carpet of detritus – dropped holopads, implant-recalibration tools, unsigned contracts in need of Stakar's approval, and the like. After stubbing his fingers on every other object and belt buckle, they finally brush leather. Yondu drags his coat onto his lap and subjects it to a quick pat-down, illuminated by the overhead solar batteries, which have sputtered into half-hearted life at the sound of the brat's whinging.

“Here.” He fishes out the shiny. Tosses it into her cot. It rolls to a rest along the coverlets, a rotund body studded with colored glass beads. “Enjoy. My treat.”

The girl looks at the toy. Looks at him. “I don't want this. Yondu, I said I wanna go home.”

Ugh. He _hates_ it when they get stroppy. Yondu doesn't know how old he was when his parents sold him to the slavers, but he remembers what happened whenever he tried to pout or sulk or throw tantrums afterwards. It wasn't pretty. He's above hurting kids – at least, hurting 'em _seriously –_ but that doesn't mean he's going to coddle her. “And I said I'm takin' ya to yer damn daddy. Don't you want that, girl?”

Her lips start to tremble. One little palm unwinds from the sour-smelling coverlets, unwashed since the last time her bed had an occupant. It wraps around the toy, squeezing until Yondu's afraid the glass might crack, and then he'll have to explain to Ego how she got shards stuck in her precious, halfbreed hand. “I don't _know_ my daddy.”

“Well, I do. And lemme tell ya...” Yondu flashes his teeth and lies through them too. “He'll look after ya real good.”

Not _entirely_ untrue. Something about the man rubs him the wrong way, but Ego always pays his dues – more than can be said for Yondu's other clients, some of whom have to be hunted down and have their fees extracted in pounds of flesh. Ego's reliable. Surely that's a sign of good character?

Yondu relaxes onto his bed, waving boredly along to his narration. “Kid, count yerself lucky you got a dad who wants ya. Plus, yours has his own damn planet. Ain't many who can boast that.”

“Yeah, you told me.” She sniffles. It's not a full-out sob, so Yondu feels justified in ignoring it. “Won't that be lonely though? Just me and him.”

Ah, finally. A question he can answer in good conscience. Not that Yondu has one of those. But he's been holding this artificial smile too long, and it's a relief to let it become genuine. “Course not. You'll have yer siblings to play with. There's Aniqo. He's a proper lil' scamp, you'll have to watch out for him. Caused a right ruckus, runnin' round my ship and gettin' under everyone's feet. Tullah and Gabs – they're mighty cute, if a bit more on the quiet side. Roz – think she's a tad younger than you, and hella into ponies (reckon she'll date a Kymellian when she's older, though don't tell daddy I said that). And Bax, of course. Don't speak a word. But find her a book to read and she'll be yer friend forever. Trust me, kid. Samira, is it?” She nods. “Right. Sammy. Lonely is the last thing yer gonna be. From here on out, it's all sunshine an' fuckin' roses, you hear me? Yer gonna be fine.”

She cradles her trinket, admiring the way the light splits through the hues and gradients of the glass. She looks at Yondu – who shoots her a last reassuring nod and an “I promise.” And she allows herself to believe him.

 

* * *

 

Yondu's only run five of these errands thus far, Samira being the sixth. They're all kept below Stakar's radar. His crew's under strict orders not to blab about where the extra honey lining their pot is coming from - and they'll obey those orders too, because off-the-books jobs mean off-the-book dough, and off-the-book dough ain't subject to the tax levied across all Ravager groups by Stakar and his court. That's good. For Yondu's peace of mind, as well as his pockets. Because while the boss is fun to fight besides, drink besides, and very occasionally fall into bed besides, Yondu doubts he'd be amenable to his prodigy's latest get-rich-quick scheme.

Ravagers don't deal in kids, after all.

This ain't _dealing_ though _._ Not really. Sure, children are exchanging hands and money bank accounts (where does a Celestial even sign up for one of those? What's his credit record? Does he have to pay rent on the space he's clogging up with his planet-sized booty, and its resultant gravitational pull?) But Yondu ain't doing nothing morally heinous. Not by his standards. He's just a courier. Deliver kids to daddy; receive paycheque; happy families all around. Sure, sometimes he has to pry kids _away_ from happy families first – subtly, with the aid of dollies and sweeties and the occasional stolen puppy; because he can't have an intergalactic peacekeeping squad descending on poor ol' Ego when all the man wants is to meet the offspring of his widely-sown oats. But everything's alright in the end. Of that Yondu's convinced. Look at Samira! Soon as the hatch reels open, Yondu's shuttle settling on the waving corn and leaving a neat scorched spiral in the shape of its backburners, Sammy's off.

“Daddy!” she shrieks. Ego's there to scoop her up. To spin her, to hug her to him and hold her close...

Yondu watches them a minute. He doesn't realize he's smiling until Kraglin sidles up and digs his elbow between his ribs. “Boss? We goin', or what?”

“We goin'.” Ain't no place for them here. They're a cog in a wheel. A part in a whole. They've done their duty, and it's time to split for where they belong – the open starways, the trade routes, the beckon and call of the Ravager flame. Yondu holds a raised fist, then flexes the fingers dramatically apart. _Back to ship._ Any crewmembers stupid enough to fan out after Yondu specifically told 'em to stay inside can either scurry up the ramp after him or be left here to suffer whatever Ego does to trespassers.

“Yondu!” Ego remembers to yell, at the last moment before the hatch reels shut. “Did you want to stay for tea?”

Yondu rolls his eyes. Celestials and their stars-damned _hospitality._ “Raincheck,” he calls – his usual response. “People to shoot, things to steal. Maybe next time?”

He doesn't wave to Samira, as the airlock seals up in preparation for atmospheric breach and the forcefield engages, covering every porthole in a milky film. He doesn't need to. Kids have short attention spans. She's too busy hugging her daddy's leg to see him off. Yondu don't begrudge her for it. Not like she's mortal anyway. He's got all the time in the galaxy to tell her she weren't a half-bad little houseguest, if you discount her chattering during the night cycle, and the occasional flood of tears.

As soon as his boots tramp into the main hold, Kraglin hollers to the pilot “Cap'n aboard!” And then they're away. It's as he's slumping into bed that night, feeling the satisfaction of another job well done, that he spies something shiny, glinting from the rumpled sheets in Samira's unmade cot.

Her toy. Looks like someone forgot it, in all the excitement.

Yondu turns it over, trying to see the appeal. It's tourist tat, worth nothing but bronze chits, and relatively few of 'em at that. Not a single precious stone. Only thing it's got going for it is that it's bright, and that it makes a satisfying _ting_ when he flicks it. He shrugs to himself and slips it in his coat pocket. He'll prop it on his control console so he don't forget about it, and next time Ego wants him to fetch a brat, he'll drop it off.

 

* * *

 

That brat's name is Mullazahaghhee. Mullazahaghhee Galahzk Hrkbv the third, in fact, with a few other titles inherited from venerable family members wedged in the middle. Yondu calls him Zagi. Zagi doesn't seem to mind. He's more chipper than Samira – he didn't leave a family so much as a stuffy set of manikins, all with increasingly difficult-to-pronounce names. Yondu's noticed that pattern. Those who are loved tend to be the most uncooperative, whereas those who have no one are all bright smiles and eager questions, and inquisitive lil' fingers that keep trying to poke buttons in his M-ship cockpit...

Yondu smacks Zagi's hand when he notices it creeping for the tantalizing yellow-and-black striped eject lever. Again. “Kid! No! How many times?” Zagi flinches, cradling his knuckles. Yondu levels a warning glare. “Oh no you don't. No waterworks, mister. You and I both know yer skin's a thousand times tougher than mine. That hurt me more than you.”

Busted. The crocodile tears are blinked away, and Zagi treats him to a smile instead. Gappy and gormless – kid's still growing in his fangs. That's why he doesn't talk much. Air whistles through the holes and Yondu laughs, because if Zagi only knew what that translated to in Centaurian...

“Look, brat,” says Kraglin tersely, from the co-pilot's seat. Unlike his cap'n, he has yet to warm to their guest. Luckily for Kraglin, Yondu finds the way his first mate gets antsy and nervous around kids entertaining. Unluckily for Kraglin, this means Yondu finds every possible excuse to put him and their young charges together, like he's mixing chemicals to figure out which ones explode. Hence why he's here now. Yondu claims he needs an escort on the trip down to Ego's surface, so Kraglin can pretend to receive an urgent job-request and save him from offers of afternoon tea. Kraglin, as ever, is fulfilling his duties – but that doesn't mean he's happy about them. Scooting piloting control to Yondu, who takes the joystick with a good-natured grumble, he turns his sneer on the cockpit's youngest occupant. “You got poisonous animals on yer homeplanet?”

Zagi nods.

“Right. Well, they're bright and pretty, right?”

Another nod.

“But do you pick 'em up?”

A shake of the head.

“Because they kill ya, right?”

Nod-nod.

“Well, this lever's the same. And this button. And this one and this one and this one. Understand? _No touchie._ ”

“No tuh-uchieeee,” Zagi repeats, the last syllable trailing into a peep. Yondu roars with laughter and Kraglin has to grab the controls to stop them plowing into an asteroid.

“Boss! By the stars! Would ya please _concentrate_ -”

“Don't tell me what to do,” says Yondu. He keeps his tone jovial, and accompanies the words with a cheerful smack to the back of the head, so Kraglin don't start fretting that he's due a brig-visit. But he sees Zagi reach for another button. This time, rather than opting for violence, he folds those tiny fingers around the toy Samira left behind. “Here, kid. Hold this instead. And when we reach the surface, you give it to yer sister, alright?”

 

* * *

 

Zagi doesn't give it to his sister, because Samira doesn't come running out to greet them. There's only Ego, standing with his usual enigmatic smile, alone in a field of wafting pollen. Spring has come early to his planet; all the flowers are in bloom. Yondu crushes them under his boots as he hops off the loading ramp. The unnerving solidity of the earth makes his legs wobble inwards, like he's a sailor stepping onto port. He don't much like being planetside – especially not in a place that's teeming with life. It's a brutal reminder of what he's lost. Alpha Centauri, the swamps, the forests, the crest that was cleaved from the back of his skull for _misbehaving..._

Yondu pats Zagi when the brat hides his face in his coat. “Go on. There he is. Your daddy.”

“Can't I shhhhtay with you?”

Aw hell. Prying him off takes effort – Zagi's species is stronger as well as hardier than Yondu's own, and he could crush the bones in the hand he's clinging to if the inclination took him. He doesn't though. Just looks at Yondu with big misty eyes. The toy tucked in his pocket glances bright under the light from Ego's neighboring star. Yondu points to it.

“You got a job to do, remember? Sammy forgot her doll while she was stayin' with me. And I need you to be a big boy, and go give it back to her. Think you can do that for me, son?”

Zagi nods fitfully. He doesn't step away though, grabbing Yondu's knees for a fast fierce hug that almost snaps his femurs. Yondu extracts himself – very, very carefully. He bestows a last pat on Zagi's head, and thanks the stars he only took Kraglin on this mission. Wouldn't do for his crew to see him acting _soft,_ after all.

“Run along then,” he says, motioning to where Ego waits with his arms crossed, watching the proceedings. “He'll take things from here.”

Ego doesn't invite him for tea. Must've forgotten. Which is a shame, because despite his bitching about _weird Celestial hospitality rituals,_ Yondu would've been tempted to take him up on it. It'd be nice to see Sam again. Just to know how she's settling in. Whether she's given Aniqo the ass-whupping that lil' tyke deserves, and if she's helped Bax creep out of her shell. Not because he cares, of course. Just... Because.

Yondu spends – what? A fortnight in each child's life, maximum. Barely enough time to learn their names. But for some reason, while Yondu's attention span is usually on par with a magpie's when there's jobs to run and cash to be made, he can't seem to forget them.

Next time, he decides as Zagi scampers to his father, waving Samira's toy so multicolored light fractures in all directions. Next time he brings 'em all a trinket. A present, something small, something shiny. Not that they'll need it. Ego's entertainment facilities must be fucking superb, if he can keep his brats from running rampant in this field: chasing each other and tackling each other and play-fighting like cubs, and all those other simple pleasures Yondu remembers from the days before a collar was fastened round his neck.

Zagi turns to shoot him a last sunny smile. But Yondu's already turned to his M-ship, one hand lifted. In Ravager, that means _take off._ If it doubles as a goodbye, that's only coincidence. No point saying farewells when he plans on coming back.

 

* * *

 

Dazya's abduction is easiest of the lot.

No. Not _abduction._ Yondu doesn't think of it in those terms. It's just... an extraction. A relocation. A return. She's the youngest of her siblings – around two years old, according to intergalactic scales of measurement. No family to her name and no prospects. She crawled onto his M-ship while Yondu was halfway through his spiel about a daddy who'll love her Oh-So-Very-Much – not that she was old enough to understand it, but he liked to make the effort. He didn't even need to offer her choice pickings from his trinket collection.

That's been accumulating piece by piece. He never invests in more than two at a time, and never so overtly that his crew can laugh at him for his new hobby. Or at least, those who try are made an example of in the worst of ways. Yondu puts 'em in the airlock and opens the door a crack, leaving a mess for his poor rookies to clean and a stink that percolates the ship for weeks on end.

Dazya laughs at the toys too. Killing her would go against the whole point of the mission – not that this stops Yondu threatening. That just makes her laugh harder.

She's a cute lil' button. Even Kraglin warms to her, which is saying something. She doesn't kick shins like Aniqo, or mope like the twins, or bite like Roz, or find small and hard-to-reach places to hide in like Bax (and consequently scare the shit out of Yondu, to the extent where he was preparing to get out the thumbscrews and work his way through the crew one-by-one by the time she emerged). She doesn't lay awake at night like Samira, and – most importantly – when she's told not to push buttons, unlike Zagi, she listens.

She's always smiling. While her species ain't the prettiest (too many tentacles, too few visible eyes) it's adorable nevertheless. Her delight at every new thing Yondu shows her – stars and gas giants and glittering nebula, and the distant bleak, quasar-pitted stripe of Galaxy's Edge – makes him want to show her more and more. It's almost a disappointment when the navs inform him they're approaching orbit.

“C'mon,” he grumps, sliding the brat off his lap. That's a throne she's only allowed to occupy when there's no other Ravagers in the vicinity – except Kraglin, who knows when to keep his mouth shut. Yondu dismisses the nav icon, and snaps his fingers to get his mate's attention. “Make sure the shuttle's fueled. We best get this lil' princess home before daddy gets worried.” This lil' princess squeaks happily at her new title. She squirms into the warmth he's left on the seat, wrapping her tendrils around herself.

Ugh. So adorable it makes Yondu's teeth rot. Considering how many of 'em he's already lost to punch-ups and hook-ups and everything in between, that doesn't bode well. He's gotta get her off ship before the contagion spreads.

It already has, judging by Kraglin's dawdling. Yondu flaps both hands at him. “C'mon, boy. Scat. Ego's waiting. Think of the money...”

“Can't we have five more minutes? She's still gotta pick out a toy.”

She does. But she's also just made a Ravager put her before sweet, hard cash. Yondu can't have that. “C'mon, princess,” he croons, lifting the wiggly ball of tentacles out his seat and sitting it on his hip as he saunters to the door. A quick whistle scares any lurking eavesdroppers. His cabin's nearest the Bridge – means he's first to asphyxiate in the event of a hull breach, but it also makes it easier to sprint here during late-night emergencies. And carry tiny octopus-children to his room without getting side-eyes from the crew. “Les get you a shiny. You done real good as a Ravager, y'know? And you better be just as good for your daddy. Because...”

He trails off. She don't understand what he's saying, so he ain't going to scare her. But he doubts Ego's brand of fatherly discipline is regulated by the Nova Accords.

“Just be good, okay?” he finishes. By then though, she's already pawing through his mound of glittering souvenirs, suckers sticking on glass and slapping on bright smooth plastic. Yondu's too busy stomping on the cooing voice inside of him to help her search.

 

* * *

  

He marches right up to Ego this time. No more standing at opposite sides of a field and politely rejecting offers of tea. Oh no. He's dumping the toys – and Dazya – on him _mano el_ _mano_. “There,” he says gruffly. He unwinds the last of her tentacles from round his neck, heaping them into Ego's arms instead, and gives her cheek a lingering pinch. “Safe with daddy now, kid.”

Ego seems more intrigued by the sack of clinking gifts that Yondu's placed, with uncharacteristic reverence, at his feet. “What're these?”

“Oh, y'know.” He waves, encompassing the field and its dry autumnal grasses, the empty sky, the fluff of clouds above, the complete lack of anything approaching a playground. “Toys. For the brats.”

Ego looks a little confused. Then something clicks, and his expression smooths to mellow amusement. “How kind of you to think of them. You never cease to surprise me, Udonta. I did not think Ravagers prided themselves on their hearts.”

It would be too much effort to bundle him into his M-ship and shoot up to space, only to eject him from the airlock again – although Yondu's mighty tempted. “Don't got one of those,” he reminds Ego. He peers over his shoulder, in the hopes he'll see Zagi or Sam standing there. But there's only the endless savannah, and the far off spires of Ego's palace. “You gonna invite me in for tea?”

Not that he's pressing. Just. It seems a bit _weird,_ that Zagi at least ain't come to say 'hi'. He thought he'd bonded with that kid, in between chortling at his whistles and slapping him away from the M-ship's self-destruct button.

Ego thins his eyes at him. It's incredible, how quickly that face can switch to hostile. “Why?” That ain't a question Yondu can answer. Not without compromising his rep. But Ego sees through him. The suspicious scowl fades. What it's replaced by – mirth – is even less welcome. Ego's laughter is humorous and wry and mocking all at once, and Yondu _hates it_. “Oh, Yondu. Bless you. That's very sweet.”

“I just wanna see 'em. Just once.” He's not shuffling his feet like he's being told off by Stakar. He is _not._ But his toecaps nudge the swagbag, nevertheless. “Wanna give 'em their presents myself, is all.”

“However did you become a Ravager captain, with a heart this big?” Ego's voice is gentle. His hands are anything but. Balancing Dazya on one hip, as Yondu had done as he swung round the empty Bridge to the rolls of the solar wind, looking only to make her laugh, he rests his other arm across Yondu's shoulders and steers him towards his ship. Yondu tries to resist, but it's impossible. He can't fight a planet. Why bother, anyway? Especially when that planet's still talking – apologetically, earnestly, his eyes full of pity. “You can't buy affection, Yondu. No matter how many toys you bring, two weeks on a Ravager ship is a very short time, compared to eternity.”

Oh. That makes sense. Disappointing – but not unexpected. They've forgotten him.

Yondu glowers at his boots as they tramp towards the waiting M-ship. Its engines burble on the cusp of hearing, just audible below the rustling wind. The kids have forgotten him, and he should return the favor. He should treat this professionally, stop getting so attached. He ought to nip all that blasted _sentiment_ in the bud _,_ which has him scouring market stalls for shinies his children (no, not _his,_ never _his_ ; they're Ego's, born and bred) might enjoy.

“I'll hang onto the trinkets,” he says hoarsely. “Ain't no point you forcing the brats to keep 'em, if they don't wanna.” They got other shit to be doing. A Celestial heritage to appreciate, and a whole damn planet to explore. He doesn't factor into any of their futures – and has only played a very small part in their pasts. Yondu knew he'd wash from their minds eventually. He'd just hoped it would be after he was dead.

Ego nods along, looking all kinds of sympathetic. He even holds out Dazya, who – not understanding the conversation – treats him to her usual giddy ear-to-ear grin. She paps suckers on his cheek in her species' equivalent of a goodbye peck. Yondu winces as they peel off, taking half his stubble with it. He's smiling too. Sadly, because if none of her siblings remember him, she ain't likely to either. He fishes in his bag, and finds another trinket to add to the one she's got bundled up in her tentacles: a wee green frog that she grasps and immediately starts to gnaw, all smooth casing so she can't bite off any bits and choke. “There,” he says gruffly. Nods for Kraglin, watching from the cockpit, to start the take-off sequence. He pauses with one boot on the gangway, the other sinking into the crispy stalks as he stares across dry grasslands, shielding his eyes from the glare off those faraway towers.

The earth seems to bulge under his sole, as if it's trying to encourage him up the ramp and away. Yondu ignores it.

“Yer lookin' after them, ain't ya,” he says. “Promise me that.”

And Ego nods and Yondu believes – not because he has to but because he _wants to_. And when the _Eclector_ rumbles back into Ravager space to find Stakar and the tribunal waiting for them, and they accuse Yondu of being a million awful things – _child thief,_ _child killer_ – he discovers that he's unsurprised, and hates himself all the more.

Only Yondu doesn't _do_ self-flagellation. He does anger, and revenge. It's only Kraglin who stops him diving his M-ship straight into Ego's crust, in the hopes it'll at the very least give the child-murdering jackass a headache. Their names reel through his head on repeat: Aniqo, Tullah and Gabs, Roz, Bax, Sam, Zagi, Dazya. As Kraglin stands between him and his M-ship, a blockade of twig-thin limbs and frantic eyes, and hisses _stand down cap'n_ and _we gotta be careful_ and _crew can't see ya like this, not so soon after Stakar cast us out,_ Yondu thinks to that bag of trinkets gathering dust in his storage cupboard. He decides his time would be better spent smashing them to powder. And, of course, waiting on Ego's next call.

He answers it as soon as it pings onto his screen. His grin is as wide and fake as it's ugly. “An' what can I do for ya on this fine day, Mr. Ego?”

Mr. Ego answers with a wink. “I swung by a little planet some years back. Saw the sights, met a local. Seems that meeting was... productive. And I'd quite like to meet that product, if you get my gist.”

Oh, Yondu gets it. Yondu gets it all too well. Ego, despite his travels, isn't the best at deciphering expressions – he doesn't seem to register the hatred that emanates from Yondu's toothy smile. That or he just doesn't care. Because what can one puny lil' mortal do to hurt him? Smug Celestial _jackass._

“I believe I do,” he says. Even adds in a dirty chuckle. “You got me some coordinates, or do I gotta go hunting?”

“Coordinates, a name, and a bigger paycheck than the last. Terra, Peter Quill, and five billion units, in that order.” That's a mighty sweet sum. Kraglin stops his demonstrative head-shaking, and his mouthing of _why the hell're we still taking calls from this guy._ He nods to Yondu, greed lighting his eyes. 

But this ain't his decision. Yondu's mind is already set. He claps his hands, rubbing until it feels like fire's burning between them, and tilts his head forwards, the blood red underlight catching on every silver-dipped fang. “Deal,” he says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Written in one day!**   
>  **Leave me comments?**
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> ****


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